Point of No Return
by phantomsloveangel
Summary: Christine wasn't Erik's first student...nor will she be his last. Ariel and Erik were childhood friends, but will their shared past be enough to hold them together in a rapidly changing world?
1. Prologue

"Higher! Higher!"

"Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah"

"Sing!"

"Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah!"

"Sing for me!"

"A-H--!"

The dark girl in the sack-like dress looked up at her teacher after finishing the aria.

"Good, Ariel." No more, no less.

The man…really, the boy, with half of his face covered with a linen mask, was sparing with words and praise. His young student yearned for his attention, and loved to hear him speak; the scarcity of his words made them all the more precious.

Ever since she had heard the majestic voice singing, deep and full, despite the singer's youth, the little girl had been entranced by its purity, its touch of the divine. She had followed it to its source, and discovered a boy, who she followed to his home, a small hut at the edge of the small town in which they lived, right outside of Rouen.

"Get out!" the thirteen-year-old boy had said.

"But I want you to teach me to sing like you!" cried the child of ten.

"You want me to teach you?" dubious.

"Yes, please."

The boy, Erik, so lonely, was so enchanted with this little girl that, for some reason, he agreed, saying simply, "Yes."

The girl, Ariel, squealed with delight and came back every week for lessons. Two years later, she was still returning, her voice was growing at a pace that could only be described at exponential. Despite his youth and voracious temper, Erik was a good teacher, both patient and kind.

That night, after the girl had pushed her voice to fill every corner of the small dwelling, she turned to leave. Suddenly pausing, she whirled around, her insatiable curiosity revealing itself.

"What's under your mask?"

She reached to pull it off, but before she managed to remove it, Erik slapped her hard across the face. The girl turned and ran, not daring to stop and look behind her.

The next day, Erik was gone.

Ariel stopped singing.

* * *

As much as I wish I did, I do not own Erik or any Leraux/ALW characters. I'm just borrowing them for a bit, and throwing in a few people of my own for them to play with.


	2. You Have Come Here

_Has it really been __twelve years,_ Ariel kept thinking to herself as she slogged her way through the knee-deep water below the new opera building, the Ange de la Musique. Nine years ago, the old Opera Populaire had burned to the ground under circumstances still not spoken about by the superstitious, but the underground passageways had remained intact; therefore, the new building was placed directly over the gravesite of the old.

And what a place the Ange was! The newspaper headlines proclaimed it to be the pride of Paris, a theatre among theatres, and none of these statements could be contradicted. The old building had been spectacular, lauded for its great architecture and design, but it did not even begin to compare with the majestic beauty that the new theatre possessed. Golden statues depicting characters, sometimes entire scenes, of Greek mythology lined the entrance and graced the awnings. Ornate ivory and gold inlays on crimson walls made a brilliant impression as you walked in the massive doors. Nearly every artist in France was vying to have one of their pieces afforded a place on the walls. The stage and theatre itself was massive, colossal, and superbly decorated; burgundy walls and black flooring, accented with silver mouldings and statues. Even the dressing rooms were beautiful, intricate silver designs painted atop walls the colour of midnight.

Where, you may ask, did the money for this new building come from? Why, the Vicomte de Chagny had pushed hard to rebuild the place. It was owned by the Vicomte, but he had yet to visit, citing 'important matters.' It was rumoured that Christine de Chagny, nee Daae, his still-childlike bride, was still too nervous, too afraid of the past, to return, but her husband insisted on the renovations, vowing to 'not be frightened of the spectres of the past.'

The people who comprised the cast, crew, and management, however, were almost entirely different than those who had graced the Populaire with their talents. Firmin and Andre both refused to return, as did Carlotta. All three said that the place was haunted, and even Andre had refused the extortionate sums that Raoul had offered for his return. Madame Giry had returned, but everyone thought she was crazy anyway. She immediately began rebuilding her once-formidable ballet, and Meg Lacroix, formerly Mademoiselle Giry, now 21, came to help her mother with the exhaustive search and rigorous training. After Piangi's death, Carlotta Guidicelli moved back to Italy, spending her days in seclusion.

_Twelve years,_ Ariel thought. _Twelve. Will he remember me? Is he even here?_

It was only by chance that she had come even to Paris, let alone the new opera house. After Erik left, her life had taken many turns, each more drastic than the last, and even taken her out of France entirely. She had finally returned to the country one year prior, and now, at the age of 24, she came to Paris, hearing the new Opera House needed a cast through her cousin – her only living relative – who lived in the city. Although she hadn't sung for years...twelve years...she decided to audition anyway, as she truly had no place else to go. On her arrival in the city, Ariel's cousin, Chantal, told her the 'strange and marvellous tale of the Opera Ghost.'

Ariel's life experiences had taught her not to believe in coincidences, and being able to put two and two together, she had deduced that it was indeed Erik, her teacher, her _friend_, who had lived below the Opera Populaire.

_That was three years ago, idiot, _she kept telling herself. _Do you really think that he's still here?_

"Yes, I do," she said to herself, almost silently. She knew not where this knowledge had come from, but she somehow _knew_ that her teacher and friend – her only true friend – still dwelled in this vast cavern below the grandiose building.

She was so preoccupied with these musings, this normally observant woman failed to notice that the water was getting deeper, potentially problematic for someone who was barely five feet tall. What Ariel lacked in height, however, she made up for in spirit. Ariel – really Ariella – was five feet tall, and slender, but she was made up entirely of invisible steel. She relied on her inner fortitude to help her in times when her diminutive body could not. Her looks, awkward as a child, were not pretty, per say, but she had grown into an exoticism that had captivated a number of men: her skin was a gleaming, clear, caramel colour, and her dark eyes matched her mass of dark curls. Her frame was quite small, and her body settled upon it, not _thin_, but slender, and she was generally clean and well groomed.

That had not always been the case, but Ariel didn't like to think about that.

_I wonder what he looks like now,_ Ariel asked herself. _I never did see...well, he never wanted me to, and that was that. How might he have changed? _She had certainly changed a great deal.

Lost in her head, a consistent fault of hers, she failed to notice the water moving, a small wake coming nearer and nearer...

Before she could react, she heard the sharp hissing of a rope cutting through air, and, almost instinctual, she threw her hands up to her face. The Punjab Lasso settled around her hands; Ariel was saved by her quick actions.

"Clever girl," a familiar voice drawled, but with an intensity, a _danger_, that Ariel had never heard before. "But not clever enough."

At that, Ariel felt a small dagger placed on her throat, its cutting edge etching the shallowest line across the delicate smoothness of her neck. She could barely see, it was so dark, and her back was to her assailant. "Let me go!"

"Why should I let you go?" came Erik's beautiful, threatening, intoxicating voice, the blade biting into her neck with a sharper insistence. Her joy at hearing his voice was rather tempered by the small dagger, chafing her throat cruelly.

Ariel managed to squeeze out, "Erik! Stop!"

At the sound of the name he hadn't heard for so, so, many long years, Erik whirled the young woman around, forcing her to face him, unable to trust his hopeful ears.

"Ariel?"


	3. That Wish Which Till Now Has Been Silent

"Ariel, is that really you?" His customary control over his voice vanished, and he was thirteen again, if only for a moment.

She wasn't too far behind, "Yes, Erik, it's really me."

He helped her slip the noose from around her neck and pulled her into a crushing embrace. The awkwardness of their last parting seemed to have abandoned them momentarily in their joy of seeing each other once again. Wet tears made their way down Ariel's face, and Erik could not be sure that his own tears did not mingle with hers. He held her tight as she wept into his silk shirt, but he never thought of his fine clothing, only of the bliss of her return, the happiness – the happiness of sharing the world with another human soul. He had not known that happiness in a very long time.

Ariel stopped crying and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. She looked into the water and finally realized that it completely covered her thighs. She made such a face that Erik was startled into a gently laugh (an immensely rare occasion, it must be noted) and managed to lift her into his boat with his customary ease and grace, although her skirt was saturated with vast quantities of water.

Settling into the bow, Ariel now occupied herself trying to arrange her dreadfully heavy, absolutely sopping skirt. "Blast," she remarked as she tried to position her hated skirts so that she wouldn't get even wetter. She could feel Erik's quiet amusement behind her, and turned her head back to him, offering him a sweet smile.

That smile meant the world to Erik. He had spent the past twelve years almost entirely alone, with no one to talk to except for a cat, who never answered back, never offered solace at his sorrows, nor joy at his successes. Having Ariel, who he remembered as a witty, talkative child, back would allow him to remember the good in humanity, in which he hadn't believed for a very long time. After laughing at her expression, he realized, as the muscles of his face relaxed into their long-held positions, he had not smiled since they had been apart.

Catching himself noticing Ariel's now-exotic looks, Erik's mouth made a wry twist as he remembered her as a child. Small and scrawny, looking somewhat like a starving kitten, she had always cropped her hair tight to her head, though even that short of a mane refused to conform, making rather a halo of black hair around her face. Now, however, her hair was pulled back tightly, with just a few wisps daring to escape the confines of its net. Even through her gown, he could tell she had become fairly muscular, far different from the gaunt child she had been, and he couldn't help but notice that she had a nice figure and beautiful face as well...

_Stop it Erik! She's __your friend. Did you not learn anything from...from Christine? Are you willing to risk the only friendship you have to your selfish lusts? You animal, leave her be! _

He sighed, almost imperceptibly. Ariel turned back to him and gave him such a concerned, caring look that he was certain she could read his mind. The warmth in her eyes almost caused him to tear up, but he checked himself fairly easily, a talent made accessible only by many years of practice.

Actually, Ariel was wondering when the turbulence that had caused his flight would be brought up, and was not looking forward to the prospect of discussing that moment. She felt no remorse for taking the mask, by any means, but she was still deeply shaken by the consequences.

Forcing her mind to leap from the dark period of her life, she managed to sneak a sidelong glance at her friend.

_He's grown up. He used to be so awkward, but he's grown into himself. Actually, I daresay that he's rather handsome.__ I wonder what's under his mask. Perhaps he will show me his opera...or, as much as one can show an opera, silly. What really happened with Christine? Has he truly been alone all this time? He looked happy to see me. Did he miss me? Is he still angry?_

Ariel laughed internally, amused as always by her jumbled method of thinking. Provided, she always thought like that, her brain leaping from idea to idea, with no discernable pattern unless she forced herself to think linearly. The best term for her thought process would have to be organized digression, she had decided.

They travailed in companionable silence for several minutes, each wrapped in their own thoughts. Out of the darkness came Erik's rich voice.

"Close your eyes."

Ariel did not even think to disobey, and lowered her eyelids in silence as the boat came to a stop. Erik jumped nimbly out of the boat, landed with a splash, and offered a hand to his friend. She climbed out, eyes still shut, and was on dry land.

"Look."

Ariel's eyes fluttered delicately as she lifted her eyelids. She gasped, as her vision revealed the most breathtaking room that she had ever seen. A simple room was covered in thousands of lit candles, their flickering light illuminating the chamber, creating beautiful, ornate shadows on the rich velvet red curtains that served as walls, and bathing the furnishings that accented the chamber in a warm golden glow. The splendour was unmatched with anything that Ariel had seen before; the beauty of the ornate candlesticks contrasted by the simplicity of the naked flames was a surprising contrast that Ariel found exquisite.

"Erik, it's beautiful!"

He made no verbal reply, but she could tell by the look in his eyes that he enjoyed her pleasure.

Taking another look at her, Erik disappeared into a back chamber. While he was out of sight, Ariel attempted to wring out her dress but even her heartiest efforts would have had little effect on the drenching that her skirt had taken. When he returned, he carried a sombre black gown. Ariel accepted it thankfully and ducked into the chamber that he had emerged from in order to change. She silently wondered where the dress had come from, but she declined to voice her doubts; their tenuous peace was far more important.

Grateful for the change of clothing, Ariel still noticed the fact that this new gown was almost seven inches too long, and about seven inches too long in the neckline as well. She grinned nastily, and grabbed a pin from the inside of her own dress, pinning the bodice shut to ensure that nothing that she didn't want seen was visible. Not that there was all that much to be seen, in any case, but at least the proprieties were observed.

As she was changing, she began to hear music coming from an organ. Sad and mournful, the dirge was elegantly composed, allowing brief moments of hope to pervade the prevailing gloomy mood. The tune brought tears to hear eyes, however briefly. Composing herself, she quickly finished dressing, her nimble fingers scrambling through the laces, and discerned a bouquet of dead red roses that had fallen out of the dress. Puzzled, she picked them up to bring them out to Erik.

Sitting at the organ, _his _organ, Erik saw Ariel return from the shadows, carrying an awkward-looking parcel. She looked somewhat comical in the big dress, almost like a child trying on her mother's clothing, Erik noted, bemused. She tripped slightly and tossed her hair, now loose, and finally gave up and grabbed the hem of the dress up so she could walk, which struck Erik as amusing. Suppressing a laugh, merely out of habit, he rose to greet her and she handed him the object that she was carrying: a bouquet of red roses. At the sight of these, Erik's eyes crinkled with sadness. He set them on the organ's bench.

Trying to distract him, Ariel remarked, "You have a beautiful home."

Grateful for the excuse to forget about the past, if only for a moment, Erik simply said, "Thank you." After a moment's pause, "Why came you to see me? How did you find me?" Even the reappearance of the person who, at the height of their friendship, probably spoke more words to him each day than everyone else did in any given year, he was currently unable to break himself of the habit of terse questions.

Ariel quickly related the story, making sure to start from once she arrived in Paris, sparing him knowledge of her trials, glossing over hardships, leaving out the more painful details, and concluded with, "I just knew you were here, and I wanted to see you."

Erik looked the happiest that she had ever seen him. He could not recall a time that anyone had wanted to see him, to simply enjoy the pleasure of his company.

Ariel hesitated, and said, "Also...I need help." Noticing Erik's eyes flash, she said, "I haven't been able to sing since...since you left. I need to sing here, I can just feel it. You're the best teacher there is. I need you to teach me. Please." The desperation in her voice was clear, but Erik knew better than to pursue it now.

"Is that the real reason why you came," he asked, his voice cold.

"No! Never!" Ariel responded, walking to his side, her eyes _pleading_ with him.

Her gaze penetrated Erik's soul, something he thought could not be done, and, after a moment's hesitation, "Of course I'll teach you Ariel."

"Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou!" Ariel squealed, throwing herself into his arms with her characteristic complete lack of reserve.

Erik smiled gently, and held her tight.

Like I've said, I don't own Erik or Christine, Giry, Raoul or Meg, but I've taken some liberties with them so that they better suit my purposes. This is my first real phic, and I know that it's not perfect, but it's a lot of fun to write and I hope that you enjoy reading it as well. Feedback is very appreciated, for if I don't know what I'm doing wrong, there is no way that I will improve. Thanks for reading!


	4. Our Passions May Fuse and Merge

Once she bade Erik farewell, Ariel ducked out of the basement by a "secret exit," (which was more likely a vent of some sort, but Ariel could not resist her slight flair for the dramatic, and labelled the exit with a mysterious touch). She had enough money on her to purchase a ride in one of the small horse-drawn cabs that filled the streets, but she decided not to, as it was only about a mile to her cousin's, and anyway, she wanted to explore Paris, not just see it passing by through the small frame of a cab's window. In any case, her lack of employment also made the idea of not wasting money on something as fleeting as a cab ride rather attractive.

Delicate snowflakes flew through the air, covering Ariel's red fascinator with a light dusting; catching in her long eyelashes and melting on the tip of her nose, she giggled rather like a child. The sky was the dark cobalt of an early November evening, and the snow came down like white feathers against the dark background. The cold air bit into Ariel's small body, but was somehow refreshing after the slightly dank air of the cellar. Ariel laughed, this time more loudly; she had always loved the snow.

Walking, she noted all the shops, the vendors who might be of interest at some point. A bit further along her path, she saw an old bookshop. Remembering the money that she had, she slipped inside.

The bookstore fit the mould of old bookshops perfectly. Crammed full of books and manuscripts, the shelves were absolutely stuffed; indeed, it looked as if the removal of a single volume could lead to sudden catastrophe by means of an explosion of dusty works of literature. The air smelled of old books and was slightly stale, little particles of dust wafting through the air. Ariel grinned, having always loved books, her companions through everything; indeed, sometimes her only companions.

A voice rang out from the back of the shop, "Bonjour, Mademoiselle!"

"Bonjour Monsieur," Ariel answered back cheerfully. "Comment êtes-vous?" She squinted to see the man standing at a counter in the back of the store, which was deceptively long. Ariel was glad her clothes had dried enough for her to change out of the enormous black gown, as, she was forced to admit, the man looked rather handsome...at least from this distance.

"Bien, merci," he replied, his voice matching hers in cheer. "Are you looking for something in particular?"

"No, Monsieur, just looking."

"Let me know if I can be of service in any way, Mademoiselle."

It suddenly occurred to Ariel that this entire conversation had consisted entirely of shouting across the room. It struck her as funny, and she fought to contain her decidedly-unladyike laughter. Apparently the man had found the situation to be equally amusing, as she heard him stifle a guffaw.

Browsing through the shop, Ariel found countless volumes that she would love to add to her sparse collection. She finally forced herself to on only two books, an almost heart-rending decision. The first was a collection of old French folktales, the other a history of Tudor England written by Eustache Chapuys; she proceeded to the back to pay.

"I'm glad to see you found something," said the man at the counter, his eyes dancing. Ariel's initial assessment of his attractiveness was proved very much correct; he was tall with dark hair and eyes the colour of coal dust, providing a noticeable contrast his pale colouring. He wore a plain ivory-coloured linen shirt and simple brown pants. Ariel noted that the shirt was peppered with ink stains, and couldn't help but contrast this with Erik's consistently immaculate garb.

"Found _something_?" Ariel replied with a gentle laugh. "Monsieur, I found more books than I could ever possibly read, but these shall have to suffice for now." Her charm and ease was effortless. Counting out change from her battered bag, she placed it on the counter. She probably should have walked past the shop, but she had never been one to resist a book. She just really, _really_ hoped that she could find work, soon.

The man smiled back at her, and said "You have no idea how rare it is to find a Mademoiselle who enjoys reading; Indeed, I simply don't know what to charge one. I suppose, to be fair, that the price must be nothing."

Ariel only protested for a moment before she allowed him to take the books under the counter to be wrapped, free of charge.

She wished him good day and turned to leave, when he said abruptly, "Mademoiselle, Où habitez-vous?"

"Er...about a half-mile south of here. Why, Monsieur?"

"It's closing time, Mademoiselle, and I am headed that way. May I humbly beg for the pleasure of escorting you to your home?"

Ariel barely hesitated, replying, "Merci, Monsieur. That would be lovely." She might have said no, but she would like to get to know this sweet man. More practically, she was not sure of most of the Parisian roads, and she would hate to get lost – a guide would most definitely be a good idea.

With a shy grin, the man said, "Mon nom est Jacques Bedeau."

In reply, Ariel gave her own name, "Ariel D'Aubigne." As always, the tiniest accent revealed that French was not her first language, a piece of knowledge that intrigued Jacques. She smiled at him, and he busied himself locking up his shop –it was a half-hour before he usually closed, but there was no need for Ariel to be aware of this fact – while she looked longingly at many of the different volumes on his shelves.

Jacques made an exaggerated bow, sending Ariel into giggles, and winked at her. Taking her arm in one hand and her package in the other, he escorted her out.

The walk to Chantal's seemed shorter than ever, though they walked slowly, the walk of two people getting to know each other. The pair discussed books, a safe topic, but one rife with opportunities to learn about one another. They were arguing over who was a better writer, Ariel taking the side of Dumas, while Jacques preferred Flaubert, when they at last arrived in front of Chantal's flat.

Jacques led her to the door and handed Ariel her package of books, and a small but heavy bag that she had failed to notice. Gently disentangling his arm from hers, he kissed her cheek and, most reluctant, turned to go.

"Au revoir Jacques."

"Au revoir Ariel."

Entering Chantal's flat, Ariel's face managed to betray her happiness. Chantal noticed the colour in her cousin's cheeks with almost-motherly approval, and saw true happiness in her chocolate-coloured eyes for the first time since her arrival in Paris.

"Where were you, cousin?" Chantal asked, trying, but not succeeding, to not sound nosy.

Ariel grinned cheekily at her only relative. Chantal was fair, with blonde hair and blue eyes, and skin so white that it was comparable only to snow. She was voluptuous, but the extra curves suited her well. Needless to say, Ariel and her cousin had come from distinctly different mothers. The only trait that they shared was the thick curl in their hair, inherited from their fathers. Chantal was Ariel's father's younger brother's only surviving child, and was 25. She was engaged to be married to the rare man who met with Ariel's approval. His name was Pierre, and he was a handsome young tailor. Ariel tried not to be envious of the love that her cousin obviously had for this sweet-faced man.

Returning to the moment, Ariel paused, and then said, "I was at the opera house. I...met an old friend there and arranged for lessons to get my voice back into shape. Hopefully, I will be able to acquire work at the Ange somehow. Then, walking home, I saw a bookstore, and the owner was kind enough to escort me home." At Chantal's raised eyebrow, "That's it. Nothing else happened. I'm sorry to bore you."

Chantal could not wipe the knowing smirk off of her face, so Ariel simply gave her an equally eloquent expression and adjourned to her tiny room behind the kitchen.

Unwrapping the package, she sighed happily at the books she had chosen, running her hands over them, caressing them almost as a lover. Opening the small bag that Jacques had handed her upon his departure, she saw an extremely old book, still in exquisite condition, of classical poetry. Letting out a small squeal at her unexpected prize, she quickly turned around to ensure that the door was firmly closed, as she certainly did not want to make Chantal more curious, or suspicious, – Ariel couldn't tell – than she already was.

Sliding against the wall on her small bed, Ariel wrapped a quilt around her and began to read, her face in a sad smile.

Two days later, Ariel entered the basement of the Ange through the small vent that she had exited through on her previous encounter, feeling delightfully covert as she glanced around to ensure that she was, indeed, alone.

Once inside, she called out, "Erik, Où vous êtes?" he appeared suddenly next to her. "You have got to teach me that trick," she said, smiling, as he helped her into the boat.

It was a short trip to his chambers, and they spent it in contemplative silence. Ariel, who had been looking forward to this lesson for the past forty-eight hours, was now rather nervous about the quality of her voice, so long unused, and Erik wondering how best to approach this lesson; she was not a little girl anymore. The silence, however, was free of tension, and so it was a fairly easy ride.

Settling himself not at the organ, but at a beautiful ebony piano, he dug around for a moment and handed her a pile of music. Before she had a chance to look at it however, he quietly bade her to sing scales. He played the first and last note of each scale for her; she was forced to rely on her ear for the rest. For the most part, however, she was able to judge her pitches accurately, and sang the scales well. He started her on an A just below the treble clef, and worked her up so that her last scale started on the C on the third space of the staff.

Erik listened to her scales carefully, noting what she remembered of his teaching and what she seemed to have discarded, testing her range. Her voice did not thin at the top, which greatly pleased him, and he made a note to push her farther next time. He began thinking, looking at her, and listening to her voice over and over. She was able to make the simplest scales sound like concert pieces, her voice rippling like a warm pond. He was mildly amused with the emotion that he heard injected into every pitch, but it was a problem that was easily solved – it is far easier to make a voice less dramatic than it is to infuse feeling into a voice. He did notice, however, a thick throatiness that pervaded each note. It was subtle, but he heard it. No one else may notice it, it was so faint, but it was important to him to make her the best she could be. He felt he owed it to her. The over-use of emotion, however, he wanted to simply tone down. Sighing, he remembered Christine, her voice completely devoid of emotion, empty tones filling the air, albeit with an overwhelmingly simple beauty. He didn't want another Christine.

He didn't have to worry. Indeed, Ariel was almost the anti-Christine. Ariel's colouring was dark and exotic, while Christine possessed a much more fragile looking beauty. Christine sang with a beautiful clear tone, while Ariel's voice was warm and rich. Ariel was bursting with vibrancy, where Christine was almost an empty page, just waiting to be written upon, almost sad in her incredible, naïve sweetness. Erik smiled. No, he didn't have to worry about Ariel becoming another Christine.

When she was finished running up and down the octaves, Erik gave her a glass of water. Gratefully, Ariel drank and looked at her first piece, an aria by Strauss. Reading the line of music carefully, she hummed the main tune as she scanned through the other music in the sheaf that Erik had given her. There were many, many arias by almost as many composers, and even a few duets mixed in. There were at least forty pieces in the stack, and when Ariel looked at the massive cabinet that Erik had grabbed her music from, she smiled at the thought of how many pieces he had that she may get to work on; Ariel truly loved music.

Starting with the Strauss aria, a piece from "The Bat," they worked for at least another hour, maybe two or even three. They both lost track of any concept of time in their mutual rapture in the music. Ariel loved to sing, and Erik was happy to teach an apt, bright, willing pupil. Like before, he spoke rarely, allowing her to find her own mistakes. He was the guide, not the master, a philosophy that worked much better with Ariel, who was bold enough to point out her errors than it had with Christine, who wished only to be validated and loved. Indeed, it was a testament to Erik's teaching skills that he could successfully instruct such different pupils.

Finally, he called it a close after they had worked through one aria – he did not want to overtire her voice, so long unaccustomed to any sort of work –, and she was instructed to practice. He took her in his boat back to the vent, and when he stood to lead her out, Ariel gently kissed him on his naked cheek. Smiling cryptically, Erik held her tight for a moment that lasted for both an instant and forever, then silently bade her farewell with only his eyes.


	5. You Have Already Succumbed to Me

The little girl sat bolt upright in the chair, obviously terrified. Her body was rigid, unable to even tremble in her fear. She stared at the unfamiliar, gruff man opposite her with the unconcealed terror of a child taken from everything that she has ever known, and he had no qualms about staring right back. The man's face was as impassive as stone. He had learned to hide his emotions well.

This petrified six-year-old was dressed most distinctly, every detail vivid to the onlooker. Her long yellow tunic was embroidered with delicate flowers, colourful and happy. Her skirt was a vibrant red, long and tiered, ragged along the hem, as the clothes of children who pay little heed to their appearance usually are. Her hair was covered with a black scarf that was pinned on, but wisps were able to escape and it was clear that her hair was very short. The clothes hung on her small, slightly scrawny frame, and they were obviously well worn. However, both she and the clothing were relatively clean, and the girl looked somewhat healthy. Her exquisitely dyed clothing provided a stark contrast to the bleak scene that she had found herself in.

The man was much less conspicuous, but still cut an impressive figure, inspiring yet more terror in the poor child. His deep brown hair was thick with curls, almost boyish and matched his eyes; however, there was only calculation radiating from his gaze, not the compassion or understanding that was so clearly desired. He was almost six feet tall, and was solid with muscle that sat well on his large frame. He might have been portly, but managed to engage in enough activity to stave off the appearance of a belly. He dressed in simple clothing made of rich fabrics, dark blue pants and a white shirt. His appearance and his attitude reflected each other perfectly. He sighed audibly.

While he and the child were engaged in their staring match, a small woman whose dress was similar to the girl's burst in. "Where's my baby? Where's my chey?"

"Dya, DYA!" the child screamed. She tried to rise, but the man was there in an instant, holding her down to the chair with a firm grip.

The tall man barked at a servant to remove the woman and glared at the little girl who couldn't stop screaming and crying. Her rigidity had vanished, and she was shaking with gasps as she screamed for her mother.

Before the woman was dragged away, she spat out, "Ka xlia ma pe tute! Te malavel les i menkiva! Chey, Ov yilo isi! Dza devlesa!" If the devil himself had uttered such curses, it could not have sounded more frightening.

The man yelling, "What did she say? What did she say? Tell me, impudent fille!" He slapped the girl across the face hard, only increasing the volume of her screams.

Flames. Fire. Jostling. Panicked voices. Dark.

Ariel sat bolt upright in bed with a small cry. She rose, trembling as she tried to guide her hand steady to light the lamp, but gave up as her hand was shaking too rapidly to guarantee that she would light the wick, instead of the curtains or her hair. How long had it been since she had last had that dream? She could see it clearly in her mind's eye. She had been terrified by this nightmare between ages six and ten, causing her to be unable to sleep without a light, but it had been gone for many years, coming back only on two other occasions. She wondered, as she always had, why she did not see it from the child's eyes, but from the eyes of an onlooker.

_The room was closing in on her. In a moment, she would be crushed.__ Alone, and crushed._

Ariel shook her head, trying to clear the vision, but she couldn't. Blindly groping in the smallish chest at the edge of her bed, she found the item that she wanted so desperately and made her way up to the roof, trying frantically to get to some air.

Reaching the last step, she opened the door to the roof and barrelled out, breathing heavily from her fear. Panting in the cold, crisp air burned her lungs with icy fingers. She was glad for the pain. She was alive.

It had stopped snowing, and the moon was out, casting a pale yellow gleam, illuminating the rooftop. A full moon. _I wonder what Dya would tell me now. _Ariel had always had excruciatingly vivid dreams, some delightful, but many horrific. Whenever Ariel had nightmares as a child – although she obviously hadn't had this one until her mother was gone – Nadya, her mother, could soothe her back to sleep.

"It's alright, chey. Beng, the Devil, is gone. Hush, my darling, you'll be fine. I'm with you. I'll protect you. Feri ando payi sitsholpe te nauyas. It was in water that one learned to swim. Learn from your dreams, my but guli chey. It's alright. I love you." Nadya would hold her daughter all night long after one of her horribly realistic nightmares. Ariel could not hear her mother's voice anymore, could no longer recapture the soothing tones that had so reassured her as a child, but she could picture her face perfectly. She knew her mother's dimples, her high cheekbones, the circles that would emerge under her eyes when she was tired. She could see her mothers full lips twist into a grin or a grimace, her eyes flash angrily – though never at her beloved daughter – or be filled with more love than Ariel had thought that a single person could either receive or possess. She could still make a perfect likeness of her mother, aided only by her memory, even with her eyes shut.

Ariel was shaken from her reverie of remembrances by the cruel bite of the wind on her face. She shivered, being that she was clothed only in a thin linen shift. Her feet were bare, and protesting against the frigid wood that bit into her tender soles. Remembering the item in her hand, she uncurled her fingers from the object and held it up to her eyes, the moon's gentle glow providing the light. It was a galbi, a coin, strung on a leather thong. It had been Nadya's; one of the only possessions that Ariel had of her mother's. Tying it around her neck, feeling the rough leather chafe the soft skin of her neck, Ariel's tears began to flow.

"Dya, Dya, Mother, Mother, I miss you! Come back Dya!" Ariel cried to the wind, but, obviously, she received no reply. Unable to control herself now, she surrendered to her tears.

She cried herself out, thick, wrenching sobs that emptied the very contents of her soul, baring her heart to the callous night, and began to sing a brigaki djilia, a sorrow song. The wind carried all of her words away into the oblivion of the heavens.

The little boy sat by the woman's bedside, perfectly still. He watched her with a gaze that was more like the gaze of an ancient than it was of a seven-year-old boy, watched this woman who had loved him with all her heart, her soul, and who was lying here now, dying. _Dying_.

How could a woman so full of life, of joie de vive so soon ago be this sick? Only two weeks before, she was vibrant and healthy, her blonde hair luminous, her face bursting with colour, her eyes shining with happiness; she was even a bit plump. Now, she was pale and dangerously thin, emaciated. Her once shining hair had turned to straw, and her formerly dancing, mischievous green eyes were pale and glassy, nothing behind them except the cruel fever that was slowly but surely leaching away her life.

The haggard body on the bed gasped for breath and, in between coughs that racked her body and made her son shudder, spat out, "Mon fils, mon bébé. Be good, my boy. You are greatly talented, you have a gift, a gift for la musique. You will do great things, Erik. Be strong, mon fils. Don't let them get to you, hurt you. You are perfect. Je vous aime, mon fils. I love you."

With that, the once strong, vital, vivid woman's head fell off the side of the bed. The boy lifted it up onto her pillow once more, carrying the childlike hope that he could make everything alright, but then the rest of her slipped off of the small bed. Her body fell to the floor, and the child picked it up gently and set her on the bed with apparent ease. The woman had obviously been horribly sick, even sicker than she had let on.

Watching his mother, the little boy noted that her chest had stopped moving and that her eyes were rolled up.

"Non! Non, vous ne pouvez pas être mort! I won't allow it! Breathe! Breathe, damn it!"

She didn't breathe.

The child began to sob silently as his entire world fell around him with a practically audible crash.

Fire. Screams. Running. Hiding. Darkness.

Erik sat up with a start, feeling the sweat make tracks down his face. He shook his head, trying to comprehend why the dream had come back. It had gone away as he had gotten older, and he hadn't been tortured with it for over three years now. He was not sure, as always, why he had been granted the role of the onlooker, rather than that of the participant. Suddenly, he was struck with an unreasonable fear, irrational anxiety.

_The Ange is going to collapse. It's going to crush me._

Trying to clear the vision, Erik shook his head vigorously. When it wouldn't leave, he recognized himself beginning to panic. Knowing firsthand what that horrid emotion can do to an otherwise reasonably rational person, he reached into a small box he kept by him at all times. He quickly found what he was looking for, pulled on a pair of breeches, and headed up to the rooftop of the Ange. He was in such a hurry, he left his mask.

Climbing up the many flights of stairs, he rushed as fast as he could to get to the roof; he did not even notice the pain in his chest, the hard breathing, his tired legs. The roof was the closest he had been to leaving this new theatre since it had been built; it was his view to the outside. It was _his_ place. Standing near the edge, he defied the wind, daring it to blow him over into the snow.

Refreshed and tired all at once, he sunk onto a marble bench and looked out over the city, taking in the beautiful lights, the fancy restaurants, but also seeing the filthy slums, the decrepit beggars. Recalling his terrifying dream, he thought _Que fait la Maman me dit__?_

He permitted himself a moment of indulgent amusement. He hadn't asked that question in years, but yet, he still knew exactly what his mother, taken from him so early, so cruelly, would have told him.

"Mon fils, mon petit garcon, it's alright. Le Diable is gone. He won't haunt you anymore tonight, I promise. Maman is here. I love you. You are safe." She would hold him, and sing for him in her sweet, low voice. Erik could remember her voice better than anything about her. The sweet, warm intonations would ripple over him, soothing him the way nothing else had ever been able to. His mother possessed the only voice that Erik had no desire to improve. Perhaps it was not technically a perfect voice, but to his most discriminating ears, there was no fault that needed to be remedied, not a single solitary change that he would encourage in that voice that had so soothed him, loved him.

Releasing his clenched fist, he stared at the simple silver locket that he had brought out with him. In it was a miniature of Elise – his mother – painted with a delicate hand, the hand of someone who clearly loved his subject. Whenever asked about it, Elise got misty-eyed and changed the subject hastily. He held it tight to his heart and a few tears came out.

"La Maman, vous étiez ma première musique. Yous êtes allé. Me donne la force pour continuer. Ne la me permets pas de renonce à, la Maman."

"Mother, you were my first music. You are gone. Give me the strength to continue. Don't let me give up on her, Mother."

Erik didn't know who he was referring to with the 'her,' and he was able to admit that to himself. He knew it was one of the two people that were in his mind at all times.

Ever in control of himself, he closed his eyes tightly for only a brief moment, and was able to regain the tight leash on which he usually kept his emotions. That tiny release, however, had a cathartic effect, and he found himself able to breathe again.

Rising again, he faced the wind and sang, sang her favourite old song. The wind carried his voice up into the heavens, where, perhaps, Elise heard his voice mixed with that of another, another whose voice fit perfectly with her son's, and perhaps Nadya heard her only child's voice entwined with another, another voice which perfectly matched.

But the two on the rooftop could not hear each other, and that made all the difference.


	6. Dropped All Defenses

Ariel woke early the next morning. She had not been able to fall into a deep sleep after returning from her sojourn on the rooftop. She dressed in a deep blue frock that looked good against her gold-bronze skin and fit her well around the waist, which was just as well, as she did not exactly have a great amount of clothing to choose from! Pulling her hair up into an elegant twist, she scrubbed her face with a soap scented with amber and Jasmine, a gift from her cousin. Ariel loved its rich, warm scent, and allowed it a moment to sink into her pores. Tying her mother's galbi around her neck, she walked out of her small, clean bedroom and slipped into the kitchen quietly, as was her habit. However, she only could wish to be as silent as Erik, who sometimes seemed to not have even a shadow to mark his coming.

Chantal had fresh croissants sitting on the table, and the two had a light, meaningless, conversation about Chantal's upcoming nuptials, Ariel teasing Chantal lightly about her almost constant chatter about Pierre, all the while trying to hide her anxious spirit.

Although neither of them addressed the subject openly, both Chantal and Ariel knew that their present living situation would not work very well after Chantal was off in married bliss. It would be awkward, to say the least, and, besides, Ariel knew that Chantal didn't have much money to spare, nor did Pierre. If they wanted to start a family, Ariel would be a nuisance, not only because Chantal and Pierre would have no privacy in his tiny, three-room flat, but also, no money to support her with. Ariel knew that Chantal would never turn her away, but she did not want to be a burden on her cousin.

Ariel sighed internally, and knew that she would have to find work at the opera house sooner rather than later, if she wanted to begin saving for a flat of her own. She would not be above taking even a cleaning job, for an absolute last resort. As if she didn't have enough to worry over.

Deciding not to think about it for now, Ariel did the dishes mindlessly. She pulled on her long black cloak, pulling the hood tight around her coiled hair, and headed out the door. Her feet may have been on the pavement, but her thoughts were far from her body.

Outside, the air was chilly, puffing insistently into the faces of the few pedestrians daring enough to brave the vile weather. Ariel pulled the folds of her cloak tighter about her head, attempting to shield her face from the cruelty of the atmosphere. There was little snow falling, but the flakes, so delicate on their own, were being hurled roughly into faces of the passer-by by the biting north wind.

It had been almost a week since her last lesson, but Ariel had been practicing hard and regaining the technique that she had lost from disuse. She had received four lessons since she had arrived; the lessons were truly the highlights of her days, as she had little else to do. Hurrying to the Ange, she knocked on the small vent that she used as an entrance, then slipped in through the opening, an opening which would, more likely than not, not have accommodated her if she had been any taller than her diminutive five feet. Erik was waiting in his boat, just as usual. Ever honest with himself, he silently acknowledged the fact that he had been anticipating her arrival for quite some time. Other than his music, Ariel was the only thing that gave him joy. He was, however, far more cautious than he had been with Christine. He had learned his lesson, and learned it well.

She climbed in, giving him a slight smile and receiving a brief nod in return. Ariel had quickly grown re-accustomed to the brusque manner that he had reverted to soon after her arrival, and therefore was not looking for a more elaborate greeting.

Arriving in the chamber that she received lessons in, Ariel threw off her cloak and hung it on a small hook, not noticing the long look that Erik gave her, innocently unaware of the advantages she might have from a certain angle. When she turned around, they started the lesson.

Starting with her scales, Erik could tell that her head was in a place far away from his dwelling-space. He was somewhat intrigued by this coincidence, as he recognized that he was rather distracted also. When she was done, he merely raised an eyebrow at her and she dropped her head, hating, as always, to disappoint him. He needed only to say one word. "Focus." She smiled wryly at this, and, as soon as the expression cleared from her face, she started a very simple aria. Erik, listening, could hear her voice making the progressions, the fifths, the octaves, the correct dynamics, the proper vowel sounds, but he could tell that neither her head nor her heart was truly in it. He let her finish the aria; the supposed-to-be-triumphant high note at the end merely sounded tired and weak.

When she was done, Ariel sighed and, hating herself for the briefest of moments, said, "Twas no good, you don't have to tell me."

Erik waited a long moment, before phrasing his reply, "It wasn't bad, either, Ariel. Many singers would be very happy with that performance. But you are too good for it. In fact, you weren't singing. Your mouth was making the sounds, but you were not part of it."

It was incredible, the way he could make her feel so small. He glanced at the clock. "Go, now. Walk. Find something to eat, clear your head. Do not return until you are ready to sing, Ariel."

Ariel murmured an ashamed thanks and he rowed her out silently. The snow had picked up in the hour she had spent below; when she walked out, blinding snow greeted her, stinging her face with its cruel little barbs. Walking down a street, she ducked into the first public building she found, a small bakery-café, which was convenient for her purposes. Ignoring the slightly nasty stare that she received from the owner – her skin colour and large features were certainly not normal among Parisians, distinguishing her as part-Romani, but she was used to being treated with a mild level of disdain – and ordered a bowl of soup. Sitting down to eat, she pulled a small tome of poetry out of her cloak and spent a cheerful half-hour with Robert Burns, which was a rather clever move on her part – she had to concentrate on the difficulties of the English language, forcing her to abandon all that was otherwise occupying her mind.

Leaving, she unpinned her hair, purely on a whim. Letting it fly loose, it blew everywhere in the wind, snaking too and fro, beating against her face. Ariel could not help but laugh at her unruly locks. She laughed and laughed, and finally had to sit down on a bench to stop laughing, ignoring the strange looks that she was getting, until tears began to roll down her face. She had no idea why her vilely misbehaving hair struck her as so funny, but it didn't matter. Great amounts of pent-up emotion escaped in her frenzied laughter and tears. She sat there for a second, a minute, ten minutes, and when she rose, she felt calm and refreshed, if somewhat frozen.

Rising, she walked slowly to the Ange, relishing the bite of the wind and snow upon her face, grateful, once again, for the pure sensations, for the ability to feel and to be.

When they returned to the chamber, Erik sat on the piano bench and silently handed her another piece, one that she had never seen before. It was a new aria by Rossini, and from the looks of it, it was dreadfully difficult. Ariel knew that this was a test, and was determined to pass. She breathed deeply, letting herself dissolve into the focus that she needed in order to sing with passion, with emotion, with _herself_.

Erik played the melody on his piano, slowly and deliberately. She listened, letting each note sink into the vastness of her consciousness. When he had finished the piece, Erik turned to her and gave her an expectant look.

From the first note, Erik knew that she had it. She sang, her voice climbing higher and higher, filling the hollows of the cavernous chambers that served as Erik's home with a dark, sensual, female tone that they had never before heard. Pure, melodious notes bounced off the walls of the labyrinth, causing the entire place to reverberate with the echo of her powerful voice. Erik could not help but notice a few minor mistakes, but he could not bring himself to stop her singing, so captivating, and the look on her face was so…almost rapturous, almost angelic. It was the look of someone in bliss, in a spiritual orgasm. Her singing was opening her soul, unabashedly baring the contents of its inner sanctum to anyone will to listen. Unable to stop himself, Erik rose and joined in, singing the counter-melody, allowing his timbre to become as dark and rich as hers. Ariel barely registered this addition to her song, as their two voices fit together as perfect as if it were by divine design, creating a flawless harmony even better than that of all the seraphim in heaven.

Their song carried, past the chambers, the tunnels, the sewers, going up to the actual building of the Ange. Above, the six ballerinas – for Madame Giry was having a terrible time trying to convince new girls to join the company, after what happened to her former star pupil, a certain Christine Daae – stopped what they were doing and listened with rapt attention. The stage crew ceased their sawing and hammering and listened intently, straining their ears to hear the faint outlines of melody that were audible so far away from the source. And Madame Giry and Meg did not fail to notice the powerful duet, Meg in awe of the song and her mother impressed, but slightly concerned.

Ariel and Erik hit their final chord and listened to the dying echoes reverberating off the cellar walls. When all sound was gone, when the room was once more silent, they stood awkwardly, both equally amazed at the glorious sound that they had produced, not from their throats, their vocal chords, but from the very cores of their beings, and unsure what they ought to do next. Erik was the first one to act; he strode the three steps to his protégée, who looked down, refusing to meet his eyes. She could not articulate why she lowered her gaze, but she felt suddenly shy, for some reason. It was almost as if she had exposed so much of herself, she did not know how to respond.

He pulled her chin up gently, and she could not help but notice the warmth of his bare fingers. "You're ready."

She tried to laugh, if only to ease this, the grinding tension that had sprung up between them, this tension that she could feel pulling her towards him but repelling her at the same time, but she could barely manage a smile. She tried anyway, getting somewhere between a smirk and a grimace. "I know…thank you."

"You did most of the work. I am certain there will be a place for you here." Again, a long pause. Erik wanted to ask her to keep coming, but he didn't want to alarm her, or, quite honestly, find out that she did not want to continue her visits. He wasn't sure how well he would be able to handle news that devastating. Ariel wanted to ask if she could keep coming, but she didn't want to be a nuisance; she was afraid that he would either flat-out refuse her request, or, even worse, feel obligated to invite her back, creating a wall of impenetrable tension between the two. Because Erik had made the first move after the power of their music had subsided, Ariel forced herself to ask,

"Er, canIkeepcomingbacktoseeyouplease?" Her voice was high and she spat the words out quickly.

Erik was so relieved, he didn't know whether he wanted to laugh or cry. "Of course, Ariel. Besides," he said, laughter – laughter! – in the crinkled corners of his eyes, "As good as you are, you will still need to practice, my dear."

Walking home, Ariel was once again inexplicably drawn to Jacques' bookshop, an almost magnetic force pulling her to its threshold. Ducking in the doorway, she took special pains not to make any noise whilst opening the door. Sliding along the wall, slipping between shelves, she stalked her way up to his desk at the back, full of an odd combination of mischief and stealth. As she saw him sidle out of the back room, she popped up.

Jacques dropped a pile of tomes on the floor with a heavy thud, a cloud of dust emitting from their landing site. "Ariel!" Then, somewhat ruefully, "You startled me."

Ariel's only response was a flirtatiously wicked grin, but she bent over to help him gather the books. Grabbing a monstrous encyclopaedia, she smiled and said, "Did they used to sell books by the pound or something?" It had an odd ring in the otherwise quiet room, so Ariel did not offer any further opinions. They both reached for the final book at the same time. As their hands met, both of them jumped, causing the book to be dropped to the floor. Smiling, Jacques said, "Poor book. Have you not taken enough abuse tonight?" They both laughed at this, and the ease in the room was restored. When he was comfortable again, Jacques asked "Do you have plans tonight, Ariel?"

Ariel returned his smile and replied, "Not yet."

"Well, then, is there any chance that I may have the honour of taking you out for supper?"

An unfamiliar sensation rose up in Ariel, and, try as she might, she could not find what it was. Elation, yes, but there was something else there, something…looming, warning, mournful, _missing_. The question was, of course, what were these lonely feelings, why did they appear when she finally had a man to be with? Where was the sadness, the ache that she felt, coming from? What was missing? Ariel could not answer these questions, so she pushed the uneasy feeling into the back of her mind and forced a smile. "That would be lovely," she answered, masterfully keeping her voice from quivering with the overwhelming anxiety that had suddenly overtaken her emotions.

Jacques once again closed his shop early and offered her his arm with the slight bow of a gentleman. She took it with a delighted giggle, amazed by his perfect manners: being treated like a lady was not something that not happened to her often – if ever – in the past.

Smiling infectiously, he led her along the snow-covered streets quickly, for it was too cold to dawdle as they had before, and into an elegant old château. From the outside, it displayed great amounts of lights, and Ariel could hear the music of a violin calling from inside its great doors.

Entering, Ariel gasped, the beauty of the large hall quite impressive. Unlike the Ange, whose splendour came in its over-the-top, flashy presentation that bordered on ostentatious, this large room was beautiful in its clean elegance. People dined at tables covered in seemingly simple ivory cloths, but upon closer inspection, the tablecloths were whorled and embroidered with delicate white patterns, and made of finest linen, giving each and every table an air of chic sophistication. Silver candlesticks, made perfectly but simply, rested on the tabletop, and the overall effect was quite striking against the cloth, the metallic sheen of the candlesticks against the creamy ivory of the linen. The walls had deep burgundy hangings, and there were garlands of evergreens strung about, signifying the coming of Christmas, the only decorations that this effortlessly elegant place needed. The beautiful room reminded Ariel of the contrast between this richly stylish chamber and her rather-more-straightforward frock.

"I'm not dressed for this," she whispered to Jacques, beginning to feel the slightest bit uncomfortable, noting the curious look that the man waiting to seat them gave her.

Jacques murmured back, "You look lovely Ariel," and spoke a few terse words with the man in a low, almost growling voice. _Actually_, Ariel thought, _that's kind of sexy_, and then giggled inwardly at her easily distracted body.

Forcing a smile that looked like he had just gotten a tooth extracted without any laudanum, the man said, "Right this way monsieur, _mademoiselle_."

Jacques grinned half-sheepishly at Ariel and they sat down at one of the lovely tables, albeit one that was decidedly closer to the kitchen than to the door, but when he opened his mouth to complain (not that he cared about the table, just the disrespect for his friend), Ariel shook her head sharply and he refrained from speaking. "My father has quite a bit of money and is a fairly prominent business figure in Chartes," he whispered to her, sounding almost ashamed. Once they were seated, "I very much apologize, Ariel."

"Don't fret about it; I'm used to it," Ariel replied quietly, but matter-of-factly. She noted the pitying look that he gave her, and frowned back. Besides a personal hatred of receiving pity, she considered it to be quite possibly the most useless emotion. To his credit, however, Jacques face immediately cleared, and she was able to relax again.

Dining, their conversation was, for the first time, not limited to the realm of literature. Ariel was truly interested in the mechanics of owning and running a shop that catered to the bibliophiles of the world, and Jacques was quite intrigued by talk of Ariel singing at the Ange, having always been a lover of opera. As she discoursed on the subject, Ariel took rather deliberate pains to not mention Erik. When thinking of Erik, she received a sharp flash of that confusing emotion that had so troubled her earlier in the evening, and she did not want to ruin her evening by spending all the time that she spent in this beautiful restaurant in her head. In any case, she was not comfortable talking to Jacques about Erik; she felt it would almost be a betrayal. However, she was greatly enjoying herself as a whole, and her thoughts of Erik soon ceased to trouble her, as she was entirely engrossed by the man who not sat across from her.

After walking her home, Jacques lingered by the door. As she began to turn to go in, he commented, "I would very much like to kiss you now." Almost in a regretful sense, it seemed, but Ariel was not sure why. She smiled at him, raising one eyebrow, a talent that had taken her years to perfect, but it was very much worth it in moments like this one. He laughed and gave her a short kiss on the lips, merely a peck, if that, shy, not pushy. Ariel let him kiss her gently, but that's all it was: letting him kiss her, but not giving back. Not yet. She gave Jacques a cryptic smile, and walked into the flat. Jacques walked to his home, deep in thought, a state of mind which he was destined to become obscenely familiar with.

Ignoring the bemused and intrigued look Chantal gave her, Ariel walked straight to her room (though, it must be said, it was by no means far to walk) and lay down on the bed. Waves of this new feeling, this immense joy mixed with sorrow and aching, spread over her and she fell asleep in a matter of moments, her hair spread over the pillow, the ebony of her hair and the white of her pillow mingling freely.


	7. You Are Here With Me

Erik stood below a grate, perfectly motionless. Directly above him was the office of the new managers of the Ange, a Monsieur Garcon, an overweight, balding man of diminutive stature who seemed about fifty, and a Monsieur Ecru, a tall, sixty-year-old gentleman who was lean as a whip. Today was the day that Erik and Ariel had been working towards for so long, the day that the new managers were having auditions to replenish their badly depleted cast. Erik stood, listening to many different voices. He was fairly disappointed, to say the least. Most of these "singers" (he did not believe they had merit to call themselves by that name) had voices that were almost painful to listen to. He found only two women whose voices did not make him cringe – The first was Alvada du Moun, a soprano who sang a lovely aria from Alcina, an obscure Handel opera, with a perfect calla voce, and the second was Suzette Roux, a contralto who sang a song of the Valkyries from Wagner. However, neither of these women possessed the voice of a diva, of a star. Erik sighed, trying not to lose his patience with the numerous desperate, talentless wretches who were singing above him. He shuddered, imagining the possibility of his music, his perfect music, one day being butchered by such strident voices. He could not believe the thought when it first appeared into his head, but it was true – he would prefer even Carlotta to these hopeless croakers.

He was deeply lost in these thoughts when he heard the familiar voice say, "Ariel D'Aubigne, Monsieur's."

He snapped out of his reverie immediately, riveted to the sound of her voice. He remained perfectly motionless, almost as nervous as she was, though he would never admit it to his pupil. _What if her aria is too hard? What if she doesn't make that note? What if I have pushed her before she is ready? What if...?_

_Stop it Erik_, he scolded himself. _She will be fine. After all, you were her teacher. _This was not arrogance on his part; it was simply fact.He closed his eyes, forcing himself to count doubles to calm himself down.

While he was thinking below, Ariel, above, noted the sideways glances Ecru and Garcon gave each other when they thought she was not looking, and realized that she would have to win them over twice, once for her voice, and once for the colour of her skin. She had not heard any of the other girls, and her stomach was quivering with nerves. _Did I warm up enough? Will I be able to sing that note right? If I make it, will my voice thin out and crack? Will I..._

"Mademoiselle?"

Ariel's thoughts came to a screeching halt as she glanced up, meeting the eyes of the managers for the first time. "Pardon, Monsieur?"

"What will you be singing for us today, Mademoiselle...D'Aubigne?" Garcon asked. He sighed. He was not a music connoisseur by any means, but he knew that, save for a small handful, most of the girls that had been in today would definitely _not_ be hearing back from them, and no one had really made a mark. That he, so ignorant in matters of music, was able to recognize this fact, only spoke to how truly awful the singers that he had heard earlier. This girl didn't look too promising either, distracted and tired…

"'Er, Der Holle Rache kocht in meinem Herzen' from 'Der Zauberflote," she replied, giving the German a surprising grace. "'The Vengeance of Hell Boils in My Heart' from 'The Magic Flute.'"

Ecru looked up, surprised. He knew a bit more about opera than his counterpart, and knew this to be a highly demanding aria. _Will she be able to make that note?_ he thought, meaning the F6, called the Queen of the Night F after this very opera, more or less the highest not that was sung in practical opera. The fact that the pitch was named after a single character only spoke to its rarity in vocal music.

Ariel took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and found her centre. When she was calm, she began…

"Der Hölle Rache kocht in meinem Herzen,

Tot und Verzweiflung flammet um mich her!

Fühlt nicht durch dich Sarastro

Todesschmerzen,

So bist du meine Tochter nimmermehr.

Verstossen sei auf ewig,

Verlassen sei auf ewig,

Zertrümmert sei'n auf ewig

Alle Bande der Natur

Wenn nicht durch dich!

Sarastro wird erblassen!

Hört, Rachegötter,

Hört der Mutter Schwur!"

She opened her eyes and saw the shocked faces of the managers before it finally registered with her. _I did it._

He opened his eyes and pounded the wall with his hand. _Yes. _

Ecru and Garcon opened their eyes. _Finally._

The power of the perfect performance, the sheer purity of the music, held them all enthralled for a long moment. Finally, Ecru broke the silence.

"Mademoiselle…D'Aubigne, is it? Yes, we will certainly be in contact with you, my dear. Just please write your address here," passing her a small piece of paper.

Ariel scrawled her name and Chantal's flat number and gave quick thanks, still reeling in shock from her performance. She left hastily, but could hear astonished whispers trailing in her wake.

Her voice had projected far past the small office, and the other girls were all staring at her, a curious mixture of wistfulness, admiration, and envy registering in their eyes. She brushed past them without giving them a thought and walked pointedly towards the great doors, passing through the large dark hall, all alone…

"You weren't planning to leave without seeing me first, were you, Ariel?" came Erik's voice. It teased her, but there was a hidden edge of danger that only one finely attuned to his moods could detect. Ariel, indeed, knew that a great deal would rest on the way that she would answer this seemingly innocent question…

"Of course not, Erik. I wasn't thinking at all, actually, and was simply planning on going to your home the same way as usual. Don't be silly."

"I don't believe that I have ever been described as silly before, Ariel." She couldn't tell if he was peeved or amused. "And this," he said, spreading his arms in a somewhat grandiose manner, "all of this is my home."

Ariel flicked her eyes towards him, gesture which he noticed, even in its subtlety. She knew better than to ask where he had come from, and how he had found her so quickly, knowing that she would only get an amused glance and no real answer. Trying to break the silence, she asked, "What did you think?"

"You did well."

She arched her brows at him, a quizzical expression dancing over her small features.

"All right, a little better than well."

She raised her brows again.

He sighed in mock frustration. "It was perfect. You were perfect, Ariel, and you know it." Half-smiling, "Stop asking for compliments. It doesn't become a lady."

This answer surprised Ariel. "Since when have I been a lady?"

"Excellent point." Stepping into the light, he glanced at her again, and added, "Though I must say, you certainly look the part today."

He was right. Ariel had dressed wisely, in a simple, but beautiful wine-coloured dress that flattered both her small figure and golden skin. There was no need for anyone to know that her selection of suitable outfits was limited to exactly three pieces; indeed, that was a major reason that she was here! Her hair was pulled up in a half-knot, the curls that hung down edged her face, a perfect frame for her delicate visage. She wore no jewellery. She didn't need to (and, for that matter, owned nothing but her mother's galbi, so it wasn't an issue).

"You're…you're," Erik said, frowning, for once, having difficulty articulating his thoughts with eloquence.

Ariel cut him off. "Monsieur Erik," she said with a false primness, "I don't believe that I have ever had the opportunity to see you at a loss for words."

"It is rare indeed for beauty to transcend language," he agreed. Noting the glow that spread over her face, he added, "And, Mademoiselle Ariel, I don't believe that I've ever seen you blush." At his words, her cheeks burned even hotter.

They walked in silence, he amused, she confused, until they reached the great doors. Erik turned to Ariel and handed her a single red rose. Their eyes met, both searching for something in the other. Abruptly, Erik turned and left her standing at the door. Ariel stood there for a long moment, trying to gather herself, to organize her thoughts into a coherent pattern, something that did not come easily for her in even the most tranquil of emotional situations. Turning the rose over in her hands absentmindedly, she was brought back to the present as a thorn prick'd her finger, causing several crimson droplets to escape her body and fall to the floor. Shaking her head, she opened the doors and walked out into the sunshine, not looking behind her.

A month later, nearly Christmastide, we find Ariel in a completely different situation. Ariel walked into the opera house, her true second home. She spent nearly all of her time there, either practicing for their first opera, or rehearsing her voice with Erik. She had long since surpassed her former level of skill, and her voice improved even more every day. When she wasn't singing, she was spending time with Jacques.

Jacques. Jacques was a difficulty. She knew that he liked her more than she liked him, but he was a good man and perhaps, someday, she would become as enamoured of him as he so obviously was of her. She enjoyed spending time with him, enjoyed his stolen kisses, loved his sweet manner and chivalrous decorum...but...was that enough? Indeed, the only person who had her emotions more confused was Erik, but, then, with Erik, that is simply what is expected. Some days, she was ecstatic to be with him, days when he would smile and tease her, days when he would push her voice to its greatest limits, causing her to discover that they weren't really her boundaries, days when he sang with her. Truly, Ariel thought, these were the best days of her life. Other days, however, when his temper was short or his mood melancholy, when Ariel was tired and frustrated...even brief encounters on that sort of day could quickly ruin Ariel's mood. Sometimes, when it felt as if he were going to tell her something, something important, he checked himself, stopping abruptly, causing frustration in his student. Ariel sighed. She didn't know the least thing about Erik, but she did know that she never wanted to lose him again…

Ariel entered the Ange, finally having confidence in her right to be there. She was familiar now to all the workers there, and most greeted her with a happy smile, as she was a generally popular figure. _One week, _she thought._ One week until we open._ She couldn't believe it. They had come so far so quickly..._She_ had come so far so quickly…

She headed back, past the public part of the theatre, and into the darker, private section for the staff. She warmed up her voice in the small room allocated to her, its splendour (the room's, that is) still amazing her. The blue walls inlaid with silver stars shone against the flickering light of the small lanterns placed about the room, causing a shimmering mirage to be cast about the small room. A large mirror stood freely – one thing that Ariel had noticed about the Ange was that no mirrors were mounted. They all stood. She adjusted her hair in the mirror, pinning up some of her more unruly curls.

Thoroughly warmed up, she exited her room and walked into the wardrobe room. As always, she enjoyed looking about this great room, peeking at the untold numbers of costumes that it contained. She marvelled at the exquisitely embroidered garments, the colours screaming at her. Putting her awe aside, she changed into her costume for the first act, still both terrified and exhilarated at playing Aida in the opera of the same name. Even more surprising was how quickly the opera was thrown together. Perhaps not thrown, she mused, but she sometimes wondered how they managed to put it together in such a very short period of time. They had been practicing for about six weeks, only three with lead singers (including herself), and the entire piece was already coherent, if not quite perfected. Exiting the wardrobe closet, she walked purposefully to the stage, already familiar with the meandering corridors that characterise the bowels of a theatre.

Henri, who played Aida's lover, Radmes, was waiting for just backstage, and kissed her on the cheek as she passed by. She grinned back, genuinely happy to see him. Ariel loved Henri – not in _that _way, mind you, (though Ariel was uncertain if he loved _any _women _that _way) but she knew that she could trust him, that he could make her laugh, and he could sing better than any man she knew, excluding Erik of course; the combination of all these characteristics was almost a recipe for a perfect co-star. Suzette and Alvada were also getting ready; they were the best new singers, other than Ariel. Suzette played the Pharaoh's daughter, Amneris, and Alvada played a priestess. Ariel gave them a little wave as they prepared to run through the first act, but did not stop to talk; she wanted her head to be ready to sing, and could not afford any distractions like the fascinating gossip that Suzette collected and dispensed on a regular basis.

Ariel had little to do during this fist act – she had a big song at the end of the first scene, but other than that she had little to sing – and so was able to observe everything. It still amazed her, how an opera was put together, and she loved watching the workmen. Her eyes eagerly took in every part of the elaborate set they were constructing; beyond that, she examined the pulleys and levers of the stage, eager to discover how everything worked with an almost childlike curiousity.

Ariel's eyes were so fixed on the complicated wires of the theatre, she did not notice the figure in the shadows that was Erik. He observed her through his practiced eyes, but still discovered little; indeed, Ariel was an enigma. She was outspoken, but shy about sharing certain feelings; she was often happy and bubbly, but had a melancholy to her voice that was only brought on by the cruel master of Experience; she was exceedingly compassionate, but could fly to anger in a split moment, and back again in an even shorter instant. His ordered mind spun in circles, trying to understand her complexities, really, her paradoxes, and, as he slipped back into the cover of darkness, he continued to contemplate her, and continued for a very long time.

One week later – Christmas 1873

Opening Night! The banner hung from the eaves of the Ange screamed these fateful words.

Opening night. Ariel's stomach reeled as she thought of these words. She felt strangely detached from the world, existing only in her own mind. The bustle of the crew seemed to pass right by her, her mind so far off. Her thoughts were spinning at a million miles an hour as the hairdresser, Madame Chevaux, and four assistants dressed in black, braided her hair into dozens of small, tight braids. Ariel barely noticed the tingle, moving numbly from the hairdresser's chair to Wardrobe, where she was garbed in the attire of an Egyptian slave.

Opening night. Erik didn't expect any trouble, and he knew that Christine wasn't coming to see her building, a thought that filled him with an indescribable level of relief. He did know, however, that Raoul was planning on an appearance, making sure that the managers and cast knew exactly who it was who was buttering their bread, Erik thought. The statement would have been cynical if it hadn't been so true. Strangely, though, he wasn't planning on revenge, not this night. He couldn't ruin this for Ariel…

Opening night. Jacques was sitting in his father's box, box five to be exact. He had heard the rumours swirling about this box, of course, as anyone with ears had, but he scoffed at the idea of a ghost haunting the building, and hadn't given the ridiculous notion a thought all night. He stared intently at the stage, eager to see Ariel make her entrance. _Ariel._ The name sighed in his mind's ear. He was completely engrossed, his eyes riveted forward, and therefore not noticing the rather large, moving shadow that accompanied him in his decidedly-non-haunted box.

_Bastards! I'll teach them to take away my seat!_ Erik thought. Forcing himself to breathe calmly, he thought, _Not tonight, though. Not tonight. _

Ariel stepped onto the stage, her heartbeat so strong that it reverberated throughout her entire body.

Ariel stepped onto the stage. Erik's thoughts of revenge were completely driven from his mind as she made her way to her first number.

Ariel stepped onto the stage, ending Jacques fantasies, catching him up in the moment.

She opened her mouth to sing. At her first note, Jacques was intrigued.

Erik was internally melting with pride.

Ariel flew through the production. She didn't know how she did it, but somehow, she sang perfectly, her entire self, her being, fitting into every note that came from her mouth, Erik's teaching mingling with the passion in her soul. Her final piece, the duet, "The Fatal Stone Closes Over Me," as she and her lover were shut into the tomb for all eternity, left not a single dry eye in the entire audience, including those belonging to that Phantom of the Opera himself.

As she bowed in front of the curtain, she felt her spirit fly to the rafters and soar throughout the great room. Weeping herself, she was led to the front of the stage, and sank into a perfect curtsey as heaps of roses were tossed at her feet.

Although there was a flood of admirers coming to her room, Jacques managed to fight his way through. Busting inside, he panted, "Ariel?"

She emerged from the rear of the room, looking more beautiful than he had ever seen her; every part of her glowed with happiness and passion, and she replied, quietly, "Oui, Jacques?"

"Would you perhaps like to get something to eat?"

Ariel sighed, but felt her heart quickening for some reason. "No, Jacques. I must go back as soon as I am changed. There is another performance tomorrow, and I fear that my voice will not recover in time." She did not feel bad about her lie, as she wasn't planning on telling him of Erik, by any means, but she could never abandon the man who had so freely given her the gift of her voice.

Jacques' heart dropped, but he kept his face impassive. "Soon, then, I hope," he said kindly. He handed her a large package and a ridiculously enormous bouquet of pink and red carnations. "Joyeux Noël, Ariel." He kissed her cheek and left without another word.

Ariel made sure that he was truly gone before crossing over to the door and turning the lock. Inexplicably experiencing the urge to dissolve into tears, Ariel instead opened the box and stared. Jacques had put several old, _old_ manuscripts into her gift. The monetary value of such a treasure was surely staggering, but the intellectual value would be even steeper. Barely able to wait to dive into them, she forced herself to set them aside for the moment.

Still riding on the high of the evening, Ariel changed with a sigh of relief – her costume was ridiculously tight (did they really think that it was easier to sing that way?) – into her everyday blue gown. She waited, silently, for Erik to come to her through a panel in the back of the room

He entered, equally silent. She rose to greet him, and he pulled her tight, almost reassuring himself that she was _there_, in front of him, as opposed to suffocating to death in a tomb. Ariel swore she could see a tear in the corner of his eye as he greeted her. "C'est magnifique, Ariel."

"Merci, Erik." There was nothing else she could say with her voice, but her eyes made up for her lack of words.

"It was your doing, Ariel." He smiled

She smiled up at him and wiped away a tear that fell onto the unmasked side of his face. "I'm not really dead, Erik." He pulled her even tighter for a moment, gathering himself. Suddenly aware of this, however, he released her somewhat suddenly. Ariel tried to reorient herself as they swept flowers off of surfaces for them to sit upon, she on her makeup stool, and he on the vanity. They talked for quite a while, him giving her advice on her singing, noting both her struggles and her triumphs, and, as always, letting her have the opportunity to find her own mistakes.

After they had dissected every facet of her performance, they both went quiet, not entirely certain what to say next. After a long moment, Erik rose, presenting her with a rose and a small, exquisitely wrapped box. "Joyeux Noël, Ariel." Erik made to leave, but before he walked out, he turned back to her and smiled in a peculiar way, an expression that she had never before seen upon his face.

"Merci, and Joyeux Noël, Erik," she murmured, her eyes locked upon his. Only after this did he vanish back into the depths of the great building. "Joyeux Noel, Erik," she repeated, almost silent.

Ariel snuck out of her dressing room, leaving behind enough flowers to provide amply for every wedding, funeral, and baptism that would occur in Paris for the next five years. Ducking in the back halls that Erik had shown her, she was able to leave the opera house fairly quickly, avoiding the throngs of amorous gentlemen who were a bit too apt to meet her, even while carrying the bulky stack of books under one arm.

Returning Chantal's, she answered her cousin's questions deftly and quickly, offering only the barest modicum of information. She didn't feel too horrendously rude in doing so, because, not only was she exhausted, she had also seen at least five men who wrote for the newspapers, three of whom spent the entire performance either ogling her or trying to look up Suzette's skirt. Complimentary articles were sure to follow. Fleeing to her room, she took the rose that Erik had given her and placed it between the pages of a tome of faery stories, pressing it to ensure that it forever retained its perfect beauty, and opened the package.

She gasped as she discovered a pair of earrings, stunningly beautiful in their simplicity. Simple diamond drops on silver, they hung to the bottom of Ariel's chin. They accented her sparkling eyes, and, at the moment, her shimmering tears.

Suddenly hit with a crippling exhaustion, Ariel barely crawled out of her gown. Wearing only her chemise, she fell asleep, the final song of Aida playing in her head, as sung by Ariel Nadya D'Aubigne and Erik Destler.


	8. Decided

March

The de Chagny Estate

In the furthest corner of the vast room that served as her bedchamber, the Countess Christine de Chagny sat in a straight-backed armchair, pink, staring out of the window. The scene outside was gloomy; dark, pounding rain with the occasional thunderclap pounded the earth, wind whipping any tree that remotely resembled a sapling to bend and sway to its whim. While the room itself was furnished ornately, decorated with everything from Persian carpets to faux Faberge eggs, and the weather outside was violently intriguing, nothing could shake the countess from her reverie, even after the house trembled with a massive thunderclap, she was so lost in thought.

Three years. It had been three years since she had married Raoul de Chagny, and she still wasn't certain why she had done so. As children, they had gotten along fairly well; they shared a love of hearing stories, and their opposing natures – Raoul's subtly domineering, Christine's need for direction – had complimented the other fairly well, especially before these characteristics had become concrete, as adults are. Her father had died, however, and Christine went to live in Paris as a ward of the opera house, while Raoul stayed behind. When Raoul reappeared ten years later, Christine managed to deny any contrary feelings, able to rationalize anything she wanted, in order to convince herself that she would be happiest with her Vicomte. At first, she had enjoyed being a lady very much; after all, she was a seventeen-year-old who had grown up poor, and was now surrounded by people who catered to her wishes, and an adoring husband. Now, however, three years and two (almost three) children later, not to mention the infinite amount of time between social events that spent doing virtually nothing but reading and needlework, she was beginning to see what she had done.

With all this time given to her for brooding and reflection, Christine knew that she had been a highly sheltered child. Although they were poor, her father had doted on her and spoiled her to the best of his ability. After he had died, she had been immediately passed into the care of Madame Giry, the ballet mistress of the Opera Populaire, and a very good friend of her father's. She suppressed a chuckle as she thought back to her awe at what seemed to be the unsurpassable opulence of the grand building. From what Raoul had told her, the new one was ever grander and less...less...gaudy, really. She had always been a star, the best ballerina, the best singer, and was watched fairly closely, even petted on, by Giry (insofar as Giry could dote, which, admittedly, was a very limited amount) and the older dancers, forcing her to remain in an almost childlike state. She was never one of the dancers to find a crewman to visit in a dark corner, and the bottles of wine circling throughout the cast never made their way to her.

This innocence had understandably transcended into her relationships with other people, which made Raoul's sweet devotion far easier to understand than the Phantom's dangerous passion. Erik offered a life fraught with tension, while Raoul promised her protection and wealth. As a woman with few means, Christine had almost been indoctrinated with the philosophy that a guarantee of safety and money were the only things important in a husband, and that it was selfish to look for more. Whether this was true only in society, or in reality, Christine had been a penniless orphan, and Raoul was a wealthy vicomte, and, even more than that, treated her with a sweet form of chivalry, protecting and comforting her, which she needed. Now, Christine was part-amused and part-disgusted to think of her naiveté.

Her thoughts were interrupted by shouts of children. Shouts of "Mama, Mama!" came from her son Troy, curly-haired and tall for his two years. Immediately after his bursting into her chamber, Christine was visited by her daughter, Troy's twin. The more serious of the pair, Kajsa looked like a miniature replica of her mother. "Mama, Papa est retourne!"

The stillness broken by her children, more people rushed into the room. First to hurry in was Miss Georgiana Seymour, the twin's English governess. Grabbing her young charges, she began to gently admonish them for what seemed to be the thousandth time about running in the house and interrupting their mother. Christine's personal maid, a beautiful girl from the southern part of the nation, Celie, was at Miss Seymour's heels. Upon seeing Celie with a hairbrush, Christine finally snapped out of her trance and rose, her vision clouding for the briefest instant from standing too fast. Smiling absently at the twins, she allowed Celie to lead her to her toilette as Miss Seymour hurried the children to their rooms to help them change out of their play-clothes, as to properly greet their father. Celie brushed her mistress hair, pinning it into a simple half-chignon, as Christine hurried to button the back of her rose silk gown, a dress much more suited for seeing her husband than the old lawn she had torn off her body in her hurry. Raoul did love to see her in pink. Once the last button was secured, Christine walked out of her dressing room in the calm manner that was characteristic of wealthy ladies, hiding all her nervous energy under the familiar mask of placidity.

Raoul was waiting for her in the blue sitting room, his personal favourite of their four sitting rooms. "Bonjour, my dear," he said, his eyes truly happy to see his bride. Enveloping her in a gentle hug (he feared of hurting the baby), he gave her a chaste kiss on the cheek, and one more on her porcelain-white forehead, and handed her a gift, of a bolt of beautiful white silk. "Perfect for you, and for the bébé," he whispered into her ear. He beckoned to his children, who, Christine noticed, were significantly cleaner and more polished than they had been even five minutes ago, and was once again eternally grateful for their talented governess, who surrendered them to their father, if somewhat reluctantly. "Have you been good children?" he asked, teasing.

As an answer, he got a chorus of "Yes, Papa. Very good. Perfect," causing him to laugh indulgently at his offspring.

He held them a bit longer, then released them, giving each a gift. Kajsa (named for Christine's Swedish grandmother), who was now dressed like a little lady in a perfect navy taffeta dress and lacy white pinafore, squealed with delight at her new doll, and Troy, feeling that he was manly, gave his thanks in a gruff voice, causing both Christine and her husband to chuckle at their darling. "I expect to see you both at supper," Raoul declared, subtly telling the governess to remove them for the remainder of the afternoon. They smiled one last time, and scampered off to play, Miss Seymour right behind them.

After freshening up, for the bumpy carriage ride was most taxing to a nobleman such as himself, Raoul returned to the sitting room where his young wife was waiting, silently embroidering a new collar. After exchanging the empty pleasantries of French social life that were required even of husband and wife, Raoul said, "They have finished _Le Fantome_. It is to be an opera, Christine!" Christine paled out of habit, but underneath her chalk-white skin, she was actually genuinely pleased.

After about a year of marriage, and the novelty being the mistress of the large household had begun to wear off, Christine began to realize how superficial…and boring her life would be for the forty or fifty years until she died if she did not do something, _anything_. Thus, she began a great project – writing _Le __Fantome de l'Opera_. It was simply a story based on her view of her experiences at the Opera Populaire, a memoir, really. Ariel knew that she was not particularly gifted with eloquence, but she worked at it two hours a day for over a year. Raoul insisted on reading it once she was finished. After he made some changes (minor, he assured her, only to change some 'factual discrepancies'), he brought the manuscript with him to the Ange, where he had been the last three months. A talented writer had been hired to transform it into first a play, and then an opera. The Ange picked it up, and it was on the schedule to be performed at some point during the summer.

Christine gathered herself and asked in the coquettish voice that she had perfected after years of practice, "Well, then, husband, who is to play me?" Avoiding the question that she really wanted to ask, she arranged her face into an expression of mild interest, quiet curiosity.

"I do believe, wife, that it is to be a rather mysterious young lady named Ariel D'Aubigne. She's rather small and dark, but no one can discover where she came from. All I know is that she impressed the managers very, very much with her audition, and now is the Ange's established diva, though, I must say, as I have met her on several occasions, she is nothing like the nightmare that was La Carlotta. She is kind and funny, warm, if a bit cryptic at times. She had been living with a cousin, but I do believe that she now lives with some other singers. She's quite a bit older than you, you know. She is twenty-four!"

"And her singing?" Christine was genuinely interested to hear her husband's response, which she was certain would be a masterpiece of diplomacy.

Raoul hesitated here. For as much as he adored his wife, he had to admit that Ariel's singing was far superior to any that he had ever heard. Raoul actually knew quite a bit about music, and he knew that Ariel could _sing_. "Er, her singing? She's quite good. In fact, Christine, darling, she's very good. I heard her in 'Aida' and 'L'italiana in Algeri.' Both performances were phenomenal. Very powerful voice. She can control your emotions with the tiniest little shift in tone. None of your sweetness, however." Changing the subject, which could be potentially awkward, "Will you be coming to Paris for the premiere?" He asked this out of politeness.

Christine, deciding to let her husband think that he had gotten away with a bit of cleverness, ignored the comment about her 'sweet' voice as well. She knew as well as anyone that her voice, while certainly very pretty to listen to, was not suited for the more difficult pieces of opera; she had often mused that she should be relieved that she got out before anyone else discovered this. Well, not everyone. Erik knew. He had never told her, but she knew that he had heard it too. Answering her husband's question, she surprised him, as well as herself, with the reply, "Yes." She was firmer this time. "Yes, I think I will. I should like to see it, and I am curious to meet this Mademoiselle D'Aubigne." Both of them knew that she would be almost eight months pregnant at the time, but there was a steely tone to her voice that Raoul had never heard before. In any case, he supposed it was likely that this was merely a caprice of a pregnant woman, and that her fancy would pass. And, if it didn't, he supposed, she could perhaps set a new fashion, as it was typically taboo for wealthy women to emerge from seclusion in their homes during pregnancy. Yes...he rather liked this fantasy of his wife setting a great new trend.

Gathering up her courage, Christine asked, "And who will be playing m...our Fantome?" Her voice trembled slightly.

Raoul was not paying enough attention notice her slip, and, after taking a sip of his brandy, answered, "A charming man named Henri Bordeaux. Good voice, strongest at tenor, but decent bass." As much as she hated to admit it, Christine knew that Raoul had a greater knowledge of music than she, if none of the talent she possessed.

"Excellent. I am very much looking forward to seeing it performed." Christine answered. She didn't _dare_ ask if he had had any sign of the real phantom; there was a long list of subjects best avoided around her husband, and Erik and all things related to him topped it. Her mind busy, she asked rhetorically, "Will pheasant be good for supper, dear?"


End file.
